Help Wanted Human: Experience Necessary by Stephen Wytrysowski by Stephen Wytrysowski - Read Online

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Summary

THE ALIENS ARE HERE! Now How Do We Get Rid of Them! You've seen them on TV! You've read about them in the Global Inquisitor! Now, read the tell-all autobiography by Stephen Wytrysowski, of the US Interpreter Team and the subject of much of the controversy surrounding U.S./Alien relations. Why are they here? Are they're intentions as benign as they would have us believe? Can we make money of them? What atrocious humiliations are our citizens being subjected to at their super secret base? And what is their obsession with anal probing anyway? Steve reveals the answers in this book that our government does not want you to read! Get The Book That Is Banned on the Chricktou Home World! Act Now!
Published: Whiskey Creek Press on
ISBN: 9781603139205
List price: $3.99
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editor.

Chapter 1

ENG-NAMSTAN/ROMA/ARA

Sta.127/Opr.127

10-17-20:37 EST

Namcol/namcol-autodict.

Subj: Private Journal―Stephen Wytrysowski

Text:

Uh, how does this thing work? Wait a... Oh, I don’t believe this! The computer is typin’ everything I say. Aw man! It even mispronounces stuff! I’m sittin’ here watchin’...watching the computer write down everything ev-er-y-thing I’m sayin’. Sayin’g! Stop It! Computer, stop! Halt! Quit! I can’t do this! They kin fire me if they want! This is just too weird!

End Entry

Chapter 2

ENG-NAMSTAN/ROMA/ARA

Sta.127/Opr.127

10-18-21:28 EST

Namcol/namcol-autodict

Subj: Private Journal―Stephen Wytrysowski

Text

I just looked at what I said, uh, wrote yesterday. I sure do come across like some kinda dork! Course I was just messin’ around. We’ve been ordered to keep journals in case people might wanna know what it was like makin’ contact an all. And we’re supposed to be ourselves when we write. They got scientists and jounalist to write official papers. They want us to be like the human interest side. Course when they see this, it might make ’em change their minds. I can’t believe anybody’d wanna read something I recorded on a computer. I guess I should take it serious because it is historical. I have a hard time believin’ I’m involved in anything well, that’s a major turnin’ point in human history. I can’t hardly wrap my brain around that, but I’m tryin’.

I guess I should start with introducin’ myself and tell about my experience with first contact. My name is Stephen Anthony Wytrysowski. I guess this is kinda like when I was a freshman in high school and I hadta write an autobiography for English class. Like a freshman in high school has something autobiographic to write about. Which reminds me, that’s wit tris ow ski, not Steve the why try Pollack like my high school algebra teacher called me. So I didn’t like algebra, so what?

I’m twenty-one and I guess I’m pretty average. Brown hair, brown eyes. I’ve put on weight cuz we don’t get much exercise, but I’ve never been the kinda guy that sits at a desk all day and a bar all night gettin’ a gut and a butt. I’m from Hammond, Indiana. That’s kinda between Chicago and Gary. Mostly what people used to do there is make steel. Mostly what they do now is collect unemployment. It’s what my Dad does.

Before I came to the base, I was livin’ with my parents and my two sisters and my brother. My seventeen-year-old sister is Cathy. She’s pretty dumb. My thirteen-year-old sister is Mary Ellen. She tries to get people to call her Eliana, but no body does. Mike is my eleven-year-old brother. Mostly I call him shithead, cuz he’s always gettin’ in my stuff. I had to share a room with the little toad.

Oh and we’ve got a little mutt named Peanut and mostly what he does is piss on my mom’s attempt to grow a rose bush and pisses her off. He likes to hump people’s legs too and bark a lot. Other than that, he’s okay. I kinda miss havin’ a dog around.

Our house is one of those frame ranch jobs with a one-car garage and a gravel driveway that’s mostly mud and the garage door’s busted cuz my stupid sister, Cathy, tried to back out of the driveway in first. I’ve lived in this house all my life and the farthest I’ve been from home before was Indianapolis on a school trip and Chicago to the museums. A coupla times I went to Michigan to go campin’. But that’s about it.

My best friend is a guy named Jeff. We’ve been friends since grade school. Jeff is an assistant peddler. He helps this guy who sells stuff outa the back of his van. Stuff like velvet paintings of Elvis and cheap ceramic animals. He’s tryin’ to get something goin’ on Ebay. He considers that like gettin’ a promotion. When we’d go out, Jeff’d tell chicks he’s an art dealer.

After high school, I wanted to go to college, but Dad didn’t want to pay for it. He has a hard time understandin’ you gotta have a degree to sell shoes practically, let alone make the kind of money he used to make at the mill. Well, I started goin’ to Purdue here in Hammond part time. I even completed my first semester with B’s no less. Then Dad got laid off and I had to drop out. See, Dad was a crane operator and there ain’t too many places you can do that except a steel mill. So Dad got me a job with this Greek guy he knows, George, so I could help support the family while him and his union buddies could sit around tryin’ to figure out how to get the mill to take ’em back.

I was workin’ as a cashier at a truck stop named Captain Hook’s Travel Island. Stupid name. After a while I got promoted to assistant night manager and I was makin’ eight-fifty an hour. With me workin’ fifty to sixty hours a week and Dad’s unemployment, we were gettin’ by.

Really bizarre things started happenin’ about that time. I noticed it before most people cuz we have those tabloid papers right by the register and I’d read ’em just for laughs. I had to be careful not to laugh too loud cuz George believes that stuff. He also believes that professional wrestling is a sport and Elvis is still alive. I don’t see what people see in Elvis. If you ask me, his music sucks dinosaur eggs.

Anyway, I started noticin’ that every week the main story was about alien spaceships bein’ sighted. I know they’re always reportin’ that stuff, but the weird part was that was all they were reportin’. No bigfoots or bigfeet whichever. No ninety-year-old grannies givin’ birth to super genius babies who pick lottery numbers. Just aliens. Then I started hearin’ stories from the drivers, but it was always, somebody on the CB said they saw a UFO. Never a first hand account. So I thought it was like those rumors about dead mice in pop bottles. Or those drivers were readin’ too many of those tabloids we sell.

Then they just showed up everywhere and everybody knew about ’em, unless you were like a guy from Borneo with a bone in your nose. There was no chance for a cover-up. They were about as obvious as a three hundred pound broad in pink stretch pants. And even when you couldn’t see ’em, you could feel ’em, like a deep vibration in the pit of your stomach. People in my neighborhood are used to sleepin’ through jets and trains, but this was like havin’ a jet fighter buzz your house.

The first time I saw one close, I was on my way to work, drivin’ down the Boreman Expressway and one a those suckers just dropped down over the traffic. It must’ve been five hundred feet across and so bright the street lights went off. Well, some jerk up ahead slammed on his brakes and we ended up in a forty-car fender bender in each lane. Then the space ship shot straight up and disappeared. Scared the shit outa me! Well, not actually.

The worst part was nobody’s insurance would pay off. They said it was either an act of war or an act of God and they didn’t have to pay on neither. So then, I was drivin’ around in a car that looked like it had a harelip in front and I had to wire the trunk shut. I had a ’95 Chevy. The quarter panels were pretty much rusted out, but it was a pretty good car. I gave it to my sister Cathy when I left and, last time I talked to her, she hadn’t put it through the garage door yet.

Anyway, they had all these experts on TV reassurin’ us: the president, astronomers, physicists, even science fiction writers. Like if you make up aliens, you know a lot about real ones. Yeah, right! And they all said the same thing. They weren’t radioactive and nobody’s been killed by one yet. And, the ever popular, any civilization capable of such advanced technology would be socially advanced as well and therefore beyond any desire for hostile invasion. I think what that meant was that if the aliens were gonna blow our shit away they’d a done it by now.

Well they did sort of. From what got leaked out, the government tried to communicate, but when the aliens didn’t answer right, the military decided they were bein’ snubbed and tried to shoot ’em down. A whole lot of jet fighters ended up disappearin’. I mean poof! Gone! Then the crews would show up unharmed some place like hangin’ from the flagpole at the White House, or the President’s bathroom, or the head of the joint chief of staff’s bedroom. They landed a chartered jet full of Japanese tourists at Area 51. Or so the rumors went. They didn’t put stuff like that on the regular news. One of the drivers told me they had a pilot show up on the baboon island at Brookfield Zoo, but I don’t know for sure. That’s not too far from us, so it was kinda creepy and it probably really upset the baboons. All that shut everybody up. No more government reports or TV news bulletins. It was like they never existed. Oh, once in awhile somebody’d get to where they couldn’t take it any more and try to shoot a UFO down with a twenty-two, but nobody even thought that was funny anymore.

Maybe people thought that if we just ignored them, they’d go away, but they just kept flyin’ over. They had a regular routine. In our area, there was a medium sized one with blue lights that went over at ten-forty-two p.m. and a little gray one that went by at one-eighteen in the afternoon. You’d get that feelin’ in your guts, the sky would light up and all the pictures on the walls would go crooked. Nobody’d say anything, but people would be settin’ their watches by ’em. You just put up with ’em like bad neighbors and zits, cuz there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. But down deep we were all feelin’ pretty helpless and scared.

At our house, at about ten forty-five and one fifteen we’d all be lined up at the bathroom door. We only have one bathroom. It wasn’t always that you had to go. Sometimes you just decided you absolutely had to wash your hands or comb your hair. Course with the way UFOs vibrate your guts, if you had a full bladder at saucer time, you’d better go! At work it was the same thing. I’d decide I had to check to see if we needed paper in the johns and you’d think all the customers had the runs. Course if they ate in our restaurant, they probably did. But there were no windows in the bathrooms. So like I guess we were pretendin’ if we didn’t look at ’em, everything would be all right. We were tryin’ to pretend things were normal and we were playin’ right into their hands—if they had hands. They do, but I didn’t know it at the time.

After I realized this, I had trouble sleepin’. Actually, I always had trouble sleepin’ cuz I mostly worked nights and my stupid brother had no consideration. But I’d lay awake thinkin’ about aliens and I decided we were bein’ tamed. That’d give me the shivers and then I really couldn’t sleep. I guess we were all just a little paranoid back then.

I have to stop now. I have to fall asleep before Smash comes around to check our breathin’ rhythms or read our auras, or whatever it does. ’Night.

End Entry

Chapter 3

ENG-NAMSTAN/ROMA/ARA

Sta.127/Opr.127

10-19-20:14 EST

Namcol/namcol-autodict.

Subj: Private Journal―Stephen Wytrysowski

Text

Where’d I leave off? Oh, Jeez! The computer showed me! It doesn’t just record stuff, it answers questions! I don’t know too much about computers, but we never had anything like this in school. Course in school, the teachers would never let us use the computers cuz they were afraid we’d break ’em, or they were already broke—cockroach crap in the disk drives and shit like that.

Anyway, the UFOs were buzzin’ over and it was like livin’ on the runway at O’Hare Airport. It was gettin’ pretty old. Then one night, this driver came runnin’ in and told us to listen to channel nine. We got the CB on and there was this guy with a real clear, well trained voice with perfect pronunciation and a really small vocabulary and lousy grammar, askin’ people about themselves and how they felt about havin’ spacecraft flyin over. He reassured us that they didn’t mean any harm. Somebody asked for his twenty, then had to explain what that was. He said it wasn’t his job to know that stuff so he’d get a navigator to explain it. Then he came back and apologized because the navigator said she was too busy and it wasn’t any of our business and we wouldn’t understand it anyway. So everybody figured it was a hoax and gave him a CB ass whoopin’ and told him to get off the emergency channel or they’d track him down and give ’em the real thing. Then we had to explain what an ass and a whoopin’ is. Well, we heard all this snortin’ and bellowin’ like a buffalo herd in heat and at the same time the announcer voice said, Untranslatable involuntary vocal response to humor and then, I no has ass.

It had to be a hoax, we thought. Everybody’s got an ass, and why would aliens be talkin’ to a bunch of nobodies like us instead of the government? But the voice kept comin back—on channel 19 now—insistin’ that it represented a group of people from outside our solar system who were here to visit and we should quit believin’ that take me to your leader, Earthman shit we got from old science fiction movies. Well, he didn’t say it exactly like that.

After a while we decided he was for real. For one thing, he was on twenty-four seven and you could pick him up all over the country and in Canada and Mexico. He was on in other countries in other languages too. Somebody asked him if he wasn’t violatin FCC regs. He asked what a F sissy was and somebody told him it was his good buddy. That got a lotta laughs. But then somebody explained about the Federal Communication Commission and how you couldn’t use a CB if you were a representative of a foreign government and they were exceedin’ the 155.3 mile transmission limit. Hell, they ended up readin’ him the whole damn rule book, which was pretty boring to listen to.

The aliens said they didn’t want to violate our laws, so they wanted to pay the FCC for permission in anything we considered valuable. They wanted to buy an AM talk radio station too, but there’s some kinda law about foreigners ownin’ radio stations in the U.S. Course that law usually didn’t apply to people quite so foreign. The government people wanted them to get off the public airwaves so they could talk about secret stuff, but the aliens wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with that. They stayed on the CB and talked to us and nobody turned ’em in. Which was cool cuz we sold a lotta CBs to four wheelers who only used cell phones.

Somebody gave our alien the handle of Skyrider, then had to explain what a handle was. He liked that term. A word to hold a person, is how he put it. He liked havin’ words explained to him. God! He needed it too. He might have had perfect TV announcer pronunciation, but his English really sucked. It probably helped people accept aliens better, bein’ able to teach them a thing or two, and not havin’ the aliens come across as too superior all the time.

Lori, this short-order cook at Captain Hook’s that I’ve been tryin’ to get with, said she thought Skyrider was pretty hot. I said that was pretty weird her havin’ the hots for somebody who was probably two feet tall and green with sixteen eyeballs. She hit me with a spatula and said she just liked his voice. I took advantage and went around imitatin’ Skyrider’s voice in front of her. She thought it was pretty funny I could do that, which was cool.

Later we found out that’s not even Skyrider’s real voice. He’s actually speakin’ his own language and it’s bein’ translated by their version of a computer and played out over a voice synthesizer. And! There’s different species of aliens takin’ turns bein Skyrider, but the computer makes ’em all sound like some kinda generic news announcer. I had to razz Lori about that. She had the hots for a machine operated by a committee. I hurt her feelings. So I took a chance, and in my best Skyrider imitation, I asked her out to make up for it. She said yes! That was how I got with Lori and I had Skyrider to thank. After that, my attitude toward aliens was a little more favorable.

It wasn’t too long after that we found out I was wrong about the sixteen eyeballs. Once they got used to talkin’ on the CB, the aliens agreed to a live press conference. We warned ’em not to say ass on TV. They were still afraid we’d think they were ugly, and wouldn’t appear on the program in person. They did agree to send pictures so we could see for ourselves if they were enough to make grown men barf. My family watched the program. Mom didn’t want to but Cathy and Mike both had to report on it for school cuz it was a historical event. Hysterical was more like it. So we made popcorn and watched aliens act stupid just like millions of families were doin’ all over the world—except I don’t know if they have microwave popcorn all over the world.

They